


Take Me Where I Cannot Stand

by Elenothar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexuality, Lestrade isn't paid enough to deal with these idiots, M/M, Meddling Mycroft, johnlockbigbang 2012, pretty much ACD!Irene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 20:30:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing is ever normal at 221B Baker Street, not even love. John comes to a few realisations about himself, discovers some things about his infuriating flatmate, and pretty much everyone else in Sherlock's life tries to get him to let go of stubbornly held onto misconceptions about who he could be, and what he could mean for someone else. Or, Sherlock has asexuality-but-in-love-with-his-flatmate issues, Lestrade and Mycroft think he's an idiot, and John is left to deal with the inevitable fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me Where I Cannot Stand

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work for the [Johnlock Big Bang](http://johnlockbigbang.livejournal.com/profile) over at lj. The amazing artwork by [jennybliss](http://jennybliss.livejournal.com/) can be found [here](http://blissfulthings.livejournal.com/6204.html).
> 
> Huge thanks to the awesome [holyfant](http://holyfant.livejournal.com/) for betaing!
> 
> Title from the Firefly theme.

 

They are out of tea.

Or rather, Sherlock has somehow managed to use up all the teabags in some horrible experiment without warning him beforehand, and now it falls to John to go buy new ones because Sherlock can’t be arsed to do something as mundane as doing the shopping. As far as unpleasant scenarios in the morning go, this one really takes the cake.

He sighs and, casting one more forlorn look at the empty kettle, returns to the living room. Maybe he might at least get a chance at today’s newspaper crossword before the resident bored genius fills it out in all of two minutes. Not that that had happened the last fifty (and counting) times, but a man is allowed to hope, after all.

Then he spots the crumpled heap of newspaper next to Sherlock on the couch and that hope, too, goes out the window. Slumping into his armchair, his gaze wanders over the footstool. He blinks. There is a _box of tea_ there, looking so innocuous that it might as well be blinking innocently at him. The flat is usually the setting for many abnormal incidents, but the appearance of shopping items in the living room is a new one. He blinks again. The box of tea is still there, sitting innocently (and inexplicably as far as he’s concerned) on the clutter.

“Er, Sherlock?”

Sherlock sighs behind the book he’s reading. It’s the kind of sigh that says ‘You’re about to ask me something stupid so go ahead and get it out of the way now since I won’t be able to stop you anyway’ as eloquently as any combination of words could. Since moving in with Sherlock, John has come to know a lot of different inflections of sighs, when before he hadn’t even believed that there could be more than a handful of types (or maybe he had just never thought about it – it’s quite astonishing what one finds oneself thinking about when hanging around a crazy genius most of one’s time) . Then again, this is Sherlock, and when does the man ever do something normally?

“Why is there a box of tea on the couch?”

Another sigh, this time of the ‘John, don’t be dim’-variety. “Because I put it there.”

And Sherlock claims _he_ has an annoying habit of stating the obvious too often. Entirely unhelpful.

“And why did you decide to put it there?”

Sherlock finally deigns to lower his book so John can see his face, only to favour him with a truly impressive derisive look. “I bought it.”

John feels his mouth drop open in surprise. He decidedly doesn’t feel like he has any control over the motion. “You’re capable of doing that?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock drawls, “and do please stop being so surprised every time I deign to do something mundane – it’s so tedious.”

He goes back to his reading.

John closes his mouth with a snap. Stranger things than Sherlock actually having bought an food _have_ happened surely, but right now none come to mind.

In the next second he realizes two things. The first is that he’s been staring at Sherlock’s book cover for the last several minutes (that, in itself isn’t worrying). The second is that the book’s title _appears_ to read “Lord Byron – A Collection of Love Poems” (now _that_ is disturbing on so many levels).

“Um, Sherlock?” he starts, tentatively.

This time Sherlock doesn’t even bother lowering the book. “What _now_ , John?”

“You…” His voice fails him in the face of such an oddity, so he coughs and tries again, “You’re reading _Byron_?!”

He very pointedly doesn’t mention (and refuses to think about) the love poems part – he isn’t sure his sanity would survive.

“I’ve told you before, John,” Sherlock replies, exasperation dripping from every syllable, “just because I don’t obsessively blather on about something doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.”

“Uh, right. Love poems. Right.”

“Beauty is universal, John, whether you believe in it, or not.”

And that sounds rather close to profound – not that Sherlock never says anything profound, but usually one needs to be able to be fascinated by, for example, mould to fully be able to appreciate his analogy with its growth and life.

When it becomes clear that Sherlock isn’t going to volunteer more on the subject (not that John really wants him to, but there is, admittedly, a small curious (insane) part of him which wants to know more), John decides that the wisest course of action is to put this new-found knowledge away somewhere far in the dark recesses of his mind . It’s hard enough to live with a man, whose actions and thoughts are far too facetted to ever be fully understood by a mere human like him, and after a year and a half (and some valiant, and more or less useless, attempts at putting Sherlock in a box (if not a nice little neat one, at least a big container box)) he feels he ought to have earned the right not to be blindsided by _more_   hidden, or God help him _emotional_ depths.

Of course this is Sherlock he’s thinking about, so whatever he thinks ought to happen naturally won’t.

***

Have you told him yet?

                M

*

I don’t know what you are talking about, _brother_.

                SH

*

Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Sherlock. It doesn’t  
suit you.

M

*

Piss off.

SH

*

Now, now, no need to be rude.

                M

*

Then stop sticking your overlarge nose in  
affairs that don’t concern you!

                 SH

*

I’m always concerned about your well-being,  
little brother.

                 M

*

Well, don’t be. I can take care of myself.

                 SH

*

Doubtful.

M

*

_Drop it_.

SH

*

…As you wish. I hope my reluctance is noted.

M

***

Even after more than a year of living there John is still sometimes surprised by how much Baker Street feels like home to him now. It’s not an entirely tangible concept, but pleasing nonetheless. Though, even with this notion of belonging he really could’ve done without the persistent smell of something rotten that still lingers in the hallway from Sherlock’s latest experiment with rabbit intestines.

He’s just reached the landing when voices from the kitchen make him halt. He hadn’t expected Lestrade to be around, since their last case had been wrapped up two day ago – though now that he thinks about it, he _had_ seen a police car parked blatantly in the no-parking zone on the other side of the street (he briefly wonders if he should be worried that in his current life he doesn’t even notice police cars parked in front of his flat as oddities anymore).

Even though John actually has had a mother explain to him that eavesdropping _really is terribly rude, darling_ , his natural curiosity is greatly aided by the fact that he would be spying on Sherlock, who certainly doesn’t have any reservation about doing it to everyone else on the planet _and_ conveniently forgets to inform John of important matters on a regular basis, so he keeps quiet, straining to listen.

“- I know it doesn’t bother you as much as the rest of us pathetically emotional beings,” Lestrade is saying, his voice worn and tired, “but they were just children and he bloody _picked them apart_ before we got to him. It should have been possible to do more.”

Involuntarily John’s left hand curls into a fist. The last case had been… particularly gruesome. None of the policemen had been unaffected by the mad brutality of this particular serial killer and after more than a year John _knows_ how compassionate Lestrade is - and what he isn’t saying. Thankfully, apparently Sherlock does too.

“Lestrade,” and that is clearly his impatient ‘don’t be an idiot’ tone (John should know), “ _I_ didn’t manage to solve this case any faster, what makes you think that you could have?”

There’s a short pause.

“You’re, while clearly not one of the brightest stars in the sky, – and if you repeat this to anyone I’ll deny ever having said this – a good Detective Inspector. You did all you could.”

John suddenly becomes aware that his mouth is hanging open. Did Sherlock seriously just _compliment_ Lestrade? Without an ulterior motive no less? Apparently the DI is thinking along the same lines, for Sherlock snaps, voice back to its usual tetchiness, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Lestrade chuckles. “Wouldn’t dream of it – besides you usually do _such_ a marvellous job of keeping a guy grounded on the rock-bottom of reality. And don’t worry about me squealing on you; no one would believe me anyway.”

John smirks at that. It’s true enough; if Lestrade went around Scotland Yard telling everyone that Sherlock had complimented him, even cared for him in a rather convoluted, indirect way he would probably be the laughing stock for weeks.

His attention returns to the conversation when Lestrade starts to speak again, sounding oddly hesitant, even cautious.

“Have you…you know…”

John frowns, clueless as to what he might be talking about. Sherlock doesn’t seem to have the same problem.

“Oh, not you too!” he gripes, annoyance tinging his voice now. “Mycroft has been haranguing me enough already!”

“Well, for some strange reason we care about you and want you to be happy,” Lestrade returns dryly. “God knows why. And your constant moping is getting tiresome.”

“I’m _not_ moping!” Sherlock protests, sounding absolutely scandalized (John can just imagine the look of horror on his face at the mere thought). His next sentence, however, has something far too close to a pleading note in it for it to have reasonably come out of Sherlock’s mouth. “Leave it, Lestrade.”

It suddenly occurs to John that _maybe_ he really shouldn’t be listening to this. The conversation sounds a lot more private than he’s completely comfortable overhearing.

Trying to make some noise without it seeming conspicuous, he enters the room, calling, “Sherlock, Mrs Hudson has some dinner downstairs and since you’re not on a case-“

He stops in mid-sentence when Sherlock and Lestrade move into the living room, trying to look appropriately surprised to see the DI. Judging by the suspicious look Sherlock pins him with he isn’t quite successful.

Ignoring the fact that he’d probably have to explain to Sherlock why he’d been eavesdropping on him (as if Sherlock ever needs or deigns to justify himself, he thinks, disgruntled), John turns to Lestrade. “You’re of course welcome to join us. Mrs Hudson always makes too much food anyway, especially with this skinflint not eating more than an anorexic three-year old.”

“Sorry, John, but I need to get back to the Yard,” Lestrade replies, clearly regretful, waving a hand full of bundle of case folders. “I just had to get this lunatic’s statement for the last case. Since he decided to vanish on us yesterday.”

The last is accompanied by a pointed look at Sherlock, who, entirely unsurprisingly, looks supremely unapologetic.

“Okay then,” John agrees amiably – the last thing he wants to do is make Lestrade feel guilty for another thing and he wouldn’t put it past him to do so over such a trifle. But because he does consider himself his friend (and still _is_ a doctor, even if sometimes it seems like he just exists to run after Sherlock lately), he adds, “See that you get some food and rest soon, Greg. Doctor’s orders. And believe me, if you don’t, I have plenty of practice with unwilling idiots who don’t take care of themselves.”

As intended, Lestrade chuckles at that, if a little tiredly, whilst Sherlock pouts in the background.

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, John. That just doesn’tentail wasting half my day with something as dull and useless as _sleep_ and imitating Mycroft with my eating habits.”

John just rolls his eyes, waving to Lestrade as he’s going down the stairs. “I don’t think you’d be able to put on any noteworthy amount of weight even if you tried, Sherlock.”

“Flatteringly put, but, as you should know as a doctor, completely inaccurate,” Sherlock drawls in reply.

They (Sherlock) don’t make it down to dinner. Fortunately Mrs Hudson is a smart lady and never expected them to.

*

“You aren’t a sociopath,” John voices offhandedly into the oppressive silence of one of Sherlock’s more enduring black moods. Usually he wouldn’t even bother trying to pierce the cloud of abrasive ill temper shrouding the prone consulting detective on the couch at such a time, but the matter has been burning on his mind ever since he overheard him talking to Lestrade after the abduction case.

Apparently the statement, for once, is interesting enough, for Sherlock looks up at him, eyes narrowed, an all-too-familiar dissecting gleam sparking to life in their depths.

“Hmm. And it only took you a year and seven months to figure it out. I suppose my overheard conversation with Lestrade is to blame?”

  _Of course_ , he knows about that. Leave _coursecoursc_ Leave it to Sherlock to not even appreciate the fact that John sees him as a human being instead of a freak.

“Well, you do put on a pretty good act,” he defends himself, still feeling slightly peeved. “Besides I never really believed it; you just weren’t very cooperative in proving me right.”

Sherlock gives him one of his ‘oh please’-looks. “You know as well as I do that it’s a lot more difficult to diagnose someone than to prove a diagnosis wrong, John. It only takes one little inconsistency.”

John decides that he really doesn’t want to think about any poor sod of a psychologist trying to evaluate Sherlock. Instead he may as well try to satisfy some of his curiosity, as Sherlock seems to be in a rare open mood. “So why do you do it? Cultivating the image of a sociopath?”

Before Sherlock can get any farther than opening his mouth, no doubt to correct his imprecise wording, he adds, “High-functioning or not.”

He’s surprised to see Sherlock actually taking a minute to contemplate his question. “It’s convenient,” he finally says evenly. “People see what they want to see - and it affords me the freedom of action I need to conduct my job. Besides it means I don’t have to bother with all these useless,” he grimaces in distaste, “social niceties.”

Correctly interpreting John’s less than thrilled look at his reasons, his voice goes flat. “You’ve seen what happens when someone notices that I’m, in fact, capable of feeling emotions. People’s stupidity in not seeing what’s right in front of their noses has protected me and anyone I associate with for years.”

A sudden chill settles into John’s bones. Moriarty. The consulting criminal (and psychopath, John has no doubt) had expertly used his insight into Sherlock and his knowledge of the perceived weakness of Sherlock's attachment to John to inflict the most possible pain. It all makes a horrible amount of sense.

Sherlock is still watching him, a crooked half-smile on his lips. “You’re the first person to mention it, _ever_ , John. And I would like to keep it that way.”

“Because heaven forbids that anyone else sees that you care,” he snaps, maybe a little unfairly. He doesn’t even know why he’s so fixated on wanting others to be aware that Sherlock Holmes cares, that he’s a good man. Sometimes he feels like there’s a Pandora’s Box in his chest which he doesn’t particularly want to open – his life is complicated enough as it is.

Sherlock just smiles enigmatically (the one that he knows bothers John because it means that he knows something, whereas John doesn’t). “The real question is - why do _you_ care?”

He doesn’t have an answer. He is fairly sure Sherlock _knows_ that he doesn’t have an answer. Which raises a completely different question: why did he ask it then?

*

The following morning John awakes to a note pinned to the kitchen table.

_Out on a case. Will be back for dinner. Buy milk and oranges.  – SH_

He blinks twice, just to make sure it’s really there and not some figment of his imagination (though he sincerely hopes his imagination isn’t fucked up enough yet to think of sticking notes into a perfectly nice table-top with a - frankly alarming-looking - pocket knife). It appears, as much as he’d thought it impossible, that Sherlock is actually making progress when it comes to social relationships – for him to leave a note so that John doesn’t have to worry about him disappearing at odd hours is a novel concept (usually he doesn’t even manage a text, just leaves without a word). Maybe he took the last time John yelled at him for disappearing without a trace for three days to heart. Or, rather more probable, he has some ulterior motive, which for some strange reason includes telling John what he’s doing for a change (in the most general sense, since ‘out on a case’ doesn’t enlighten John in any particularly profound way, especially since he hadn’t even been aware that they _had_ a case).

Either way, John will probably never know, so he decides to simply enjoy the fact that it has happened in the first place. He does spend a minute wondering about the oranges, but soon gives it up as a useless exercise.

His day passes in a near-unprecedented normal fashion. This is probably largely due to the lack of Sherlockian insanity (all the decidedly abnormal things he can imagine happening on any given day, say for example decomposing corpses under the couch, or a constant barrage of text messages asking about toxicity levels in the blood while he’s working at the clinic _with patients_ , inevitably bear his flatmate’s hallmark).

Such normalcy in itself isn’t particularly worrying. What _is_ , however, is the fact that after only one bloody, Sherlock-less day he finds himself _missing_ the usual insanity. Which is so far removed from normal that it’s already dangerously approaching really-fucked-up. He can’t even get through one day of boring, normal routine (and since when does he think of his ‘regular’ life as such anyway?) without pining for the chaos inherent in just about everything the mad genius does. Christ.

Ironically, he’s so wrapped up in his brooding thoughts that it’s already nine pm when the wrongness registers. Their meal times might be hazardous and constantly subject to change, but usually John manages to get to dinner before nine and one the rare occasions that Sherlock actually deigns to decide not to deliberately starve himself in the name of science he joins him. Which means he should have been back already.

Entry: bad feeling of the day.

_Step One_ : text Sherlock (the most reliable venue of communication when it comes to his flatmate).

_Are you alright? You should’ve been home already._

_-JW_

He manages to wait for five minutes, body thrumming with nervous energy, until he breaks and moves on to _Step Two_ : text Sherlock again to yell at him and threaten him just in case he’s being a dick and just not answering.

_If you don’t answer me I’m going to throw out the  
fingernails AND the kidney in the fridge!_

_-JW_

This time he holds out a full fifteen minutes, to really make sure that Sherlock isn’t going to respond anymore, before he implements _Step Three_ : Call Lestrade to figure out what the hell is going on.

When he picks up the DI’s voice sounds even more tired than usual. He’s obviously still at work, even though it’s already past nine. “Yes?”

“It’s John. Have you seen Sherlock recently?” he asks without preamble (he might have nerves of steel, but they don’t extent to making small talk while his best friend is missing, possibly kidnapped, injured, or dead).

“Sherlock?” Lestrade repeats questioningly. John’s heart sinks. “No. Haven’t seen him all day. I was going to come over to get him to take a look at something right now actually.”

“Are you sure he didn’t know of that already? He left me a note saying he was out on a case.”

Lestrade is quiet for a moment. “Quite sure, John. Are _you_ sure he’s not just run off somewhere again? You know how he gets.”

“Are you listening to me, Greg?” John demands, his already thin patience fraying even more. “He left a _note_. Sherlock _never_ leaves notes! And it says that he would be back by dinner.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Lestrade murmurs in sudden understanding.

John can only silently agree with the sentiment. “What’s the case you were going to bring by about?”

“Smuggling ring,” Lestrade answers quietly, now sounding about as worried as John feels. Bloody hell indeed.

Muttering a quick goodbye to the DI, John immediately initiates _Step Four_ : Call Mycroft (only to be utilized in extreme circumstances because a) he’s as irritating as Sherlock on his best days, just in a more polite way, b) he gives the phrase _big brother’s watching you_ a horrible new reality, and c) Sherlock is liable to kill John if he consults his brother on a non-life-or-death related matter).

No one can deny, however, that Mycroft Holmes is efficient. Only ten minutes after their ten second phone call (it didn’t take Mycroft longer to understand the severity of the situation – John isn’t sure whether to be comforted or even more worried) he arrives at 221B (no red traffic lights for the man behind the British Government, apparently), god knows how many agents in tow.

He also brings intel on the smuggling ring as the prime suspect responsible for Sherlock’s disappearance, and CCTV camera footage.

It doesn’t take them more than fifteen minutes to track him down.

*

Sherlock, the insufferable git, doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised (or grateful, for that matter) when they barge through the door into his improvised holding cell. How a man tied to a chair can possibly look so at ease and arrogant, not to mention completely unimpressed by the two thugs trying to outdo each other in beating him to a bloody pulp is entirely beyond John.

Sherlock smirks around his two flummoxed captors. “One hour and twelve minutes, give or take a few. Mycroft, you’re _slipping_.”

John is about to reply that Mycroft isn’t actually there but waiting outside (though knowing him he’s probably listening in somehow anyway) when a quick motion behind Sherlock catches his eye.

His shot hits the third man emerging from the shadows in the left arm, eliciting a yell of pain. John had hoped it would bring the man down, but instead he steadies himself on Sherlock’s chair – holding a gun to the bound detective’s head.

John freezes. Hostage situations like this are the worst – and he missed his chance of stopping the mayhem that is sure to follow. After all a certain someone is involved, who now somehow seems to think it’s a _marvellous_ idea to antagonize the guy threatening him with a gun.

“You know – well, actually you probably don’t, judging by the moronic way this kidnapping has been orchestrated – your chances of getting out of here as a free man sum up to zero, even with me as a hostage. If you, however lower that gun and surrender, your chances of retaining your life at least reach the double digits. Also, with the way your arm is bleeding you’re going to pass out in about three minutes anyway, so, please, do us all a favour and cease these useless theatrics.”

It the situation weren’t so tense, John would’ve admired both the amount of cutting sarcasm Sherlock managed to fit in just a few sentences and the irony of hearing the drama-queen himself talk about theatrics.

Only John’s (lately mostly latent) soldier instincts allow him to take in all that happens in the next second at once. He sees the man’s brow furrow in anger (apparently he isn’t stupid enough not to notice that Sherlock has, in fact, just insulted him) and his finger tighten on the trigger, but before John’s heart can freeze up in complete desperation, he also sees a minute shift in Sherlock’s weight distribution.

He realizes, a spark of hope burning to life, what is about to happen a split second before Sherlock throws himself and the chair backwards just as a gunshot resounds. John doesn’t even need to think about aiming and shooting Sherlock’s would-be killer, whose surprise at having missed makes him an easy target (no military training there, evidently).

Sherlock sighs from his spot on the floor. “Good grief, why are they always so _stupid_? Couldn’t they at least hire men with class to kidnap me?”

*

Since Sherlock flat out refuses to go the hospital for ‘a few bumps and bruises’ (which would be reassuring if John didn’t know that he would say the exact same thing if he’d broken his leg or accidentally poisoned himself) John convinces him to let John check him over at least; a fight worthy of a heroic epic in itself (though there’s thankfully a lot less killing people involved and a lot more whining and pouting).

When John has finally wrestled the recalcitrant genius flat onto his back on the couch and all but torn his shirt off, revealing a smooth expanse of creamy skin (where it isn’t mottled with ugly, dark bruises that is), his mind abruptly catches up with his actions.

The epiphany hits him with the force of an electric shock, as he stares down at the body beneath his hands. He’s _attracted_ to Sherlock. Good God.

He stills, trying hard not to stare at the enticing picture before him and God, couldn’t this revelation have come at a more opportune moment? Sherlock needs help, and here he is, starting to work through a fucking-hell-I-want-to-shag-my-flatmate-panic.

Sherlock’s quiet voice shakes him out of his increasingly panicked thoughts. “John?” No trace of the former whine is left in tone, just a mix of curiosity and - could this day get even stranger? - worry.

Forcing himself to take a few deep, steady breaths, John raises his eyes to meet his gaze (and oh, if that isn’t a bad move, even when he hadn’t been aware of any kind of attraction Sherlock’s eyes had been arresting and now – deep breaths, John, deep breaths) and asks, his voice barely wavering, “Do you have any trouble breathing?”

“No,” Sherlock replies, but his eyes are still fixed on him with an alarming amount of focus, so he’s obviously not as distracted from trying to figure him out as John had hoped.

Well, nothing he can do about that, really (once Sherlock gets hung up on a subject all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t drag him away from it again), so he goes back to cataloguing his friend’s injuries. Most of the bruises – _don’t_ think about his skin, John, don’t think about it – look ugly and painful, but not in need of treatment. He prods lightly at Sherlock’s ribs, making him flinch.

“These don’t feel broken, but I think you cracked at least a couple,” he informs Sherlock in his best, stern ‘I’m a doctor and you better listen to me’ –voice. “So no running around for a couple of weeks or they won’t heal properly, not to mention that you’d probably manage to actually break them somehow.”

Sherlock’s put-out sigh could’ve won awards.

Sitting up again, he shrugs back into his shirt with only the most minute of winces, and John breathes a sigh of relief.  Keeping calm and _not jumping his flatmate who’s married to his work_ suddenly becomes much easier, now that there’s no more exposed skin than usual. Unfortunately there’re still some very distracting bits exposed (God, how has he never noticed the stretch of that neck before?), not to mention that Sherlock’s still staring at him like he’s one of his experiments.

Bloody hell, he’s got it bad.

If he beats an overly hasty and probably suspicious quick retreat to his room, well, no one could really blame him for that, could they?

Time to formulate a game plan - how _not_ to ruin his relationship with his best friend by blatantly coming on to him. Some thinking is definitely in order.

*

John doesn’t go to sleep for a long time.

Usually he falls asleep basically when his head hits the pillow – one of the many remnants of his time as a soldier, the ability to sleep at will, anytime, anywhere – but right now his swirling, chaotic thoughts put up more of a fight than is strictly speaking normal for him.

Also, John has never been the kind of person to ignore any issues that have cropped up, instead firmly believing that facing them is the best course of action – and discovering a latent attraction to one’s flatmate definitely counts as an issue. _Especially_ since the longer he thinks about it, the more finds himself actually liking the idea. Which is, to put it mildly, quite the scary notion. John has no trouble admitting to himself that ever since he’d first laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes, he’d been in his thrall, like a planet in orbit around the sun. Sherlock is brilliant, a whirl-wind of motion, and utterly mad, but also quite an irresistible force. Until now, however, John’s never thought of taking his entrapment further, yet it somehow seems like the natural next step. A step that might never have happened, yes, but now that he _is_ feeling like this, an awakened desire troubling his every thought, he’s having a harder time of telling himself that it’s a step _he shouldn’t take_. Because Sherlock is Sherlock and will _always_ be Sherlock, and Sherlock doesn’t do emotions, doesn’t do intimacy. John’s lived with him long enough to know that much. Which negated pretty much the whole thought process that led him to this point and throws a completely different conclusion in his face.

He sighs, once.

*

Normally John is as much of a morning person as any sane human being can be, which is not that much but not unbearably grouchy either. This particular morning, however, his mood leaves a lot to be desired. Apparently discovering that one has a crush on one’s flatmate (who also happens to be the only Consulting Detective in the world and will probably deduce said state before the day is out – and he can’t exactly say he’s looking forward to _that_ ) in a very sudden, altogether non-gentle, definitely no easing into it way isn’t quite a guarantor for happy feelings.

And as if that isn’t enough, the plan ‘How to Fall out of Love with Annoying Genius’ he’d spent half the night trying to think up, still only consists of: carry on as normal, _don’t_ ogle said genius’ arse, make lots of tea, don’t let on anything has happened, _really_ don’t ogle his arse, and hope it will go away by itself. But he’s John Watson, and why would anything ever go according to plan and do him the favour of going away when he wants it to?

And then, to complicate matters even more, of course there’s the rebellious voice in the back of his mind asking why not try and win Sherlock over, after all he _could_ do worse, relationship-wise, than the person who he is currently living with, who is really annoying and arrogant, severely tests his patience at least once a day, happens to be male, and claims to be married to his work, but who is also his friend, brilliantly intelligent, _very_ good-looking, continues to make his limp go away, and actually kind of treats him well in a very Sherlock-y fashion.

For now John does his best to suppress/ignore this blatant betrayal by some of his thoughts, mainly, as his nightly excursion into probable future land had showed him, because it would probably end up being a complete disaster, and Sherlock hasn’t shown the merest sliver of interest in any kind of relationship yet.

Or so he tries to tell himself, anyway, because it certainly doesn’t stop his traitorous heart from wishing.

And Sherlock being Sherlock, which includes inevitably being the complete opposite of helpful, apparently had picked today of all days to treat the inhabitants of 221B to an impromptu, but nonetheless excellent, violin concert at seven in the morning.

Still lying in his comfortable bed John is utterly helpless to stop himself from falling into the sweet swell of music, the thrumming harmonies, the masterful melodies that Sherlock is conjuring up with such frightening ease downstairs.

He might not usually listen to classical music (he’s more of a Beatles man, if anything), but when Sherlock _really_ plays the violin, not the squawking and screeching he does to annoy Mycroft, John gets sucked into the music completely, sees no way that he _couldn’t_ be. He isn’t sure if that’s the case because of Sherlock’s undoubted brilliance and mastery of the instrument, or because of the way he gives himself up to the music completely, expressing emotions, _passion_ which he normally keeps under such a tight lock as to have most people convinced that he is, in fact, a sociopath. No one can listen and watch Sherlock playing music and still believe that.

Sometimes he wonders why Sherlock didn’t choose to make music his whole life. He could’ve been an unmatched virtuoso on the stage, but right now the musical world doesn’t even know what it’s missing. That Sherlock feels deeply enough about this liveliest expression of art is beyond question. John still remembers the case of the murdered cellist a while back. He’d never seen Sherlock so personally touched by a death before; there’d been real grief in his eyes. When John had tentatively asked him about it after they’d caught the culprit, Sherlock had just quietly said, “He was an outstanding musician, John. Through his music he gave beauty and innermost expression to the world and everyone who listened to him play. To see a life such as his cut short is the greatest waste I can conceive of.”

Drifting blissfully on the notes coming from downstairs, John is totally unaware of the time passing, until the music ends on a long, mournful high note. He sighs. The reprieve is over, time to face the day – and Sherlock.

The man in question is lying on the couch, clad in his customary dressing gown, violin cradled close to his chest.

No reply comes forth to John’s mumbled ‘Good morning’, but then he doesn’t really expect one. Puttering around the kitchen in the process of making his much needed morning tea, he raises his voice a little to leave no doubt that he is, in fact, addressing Sherlock and possibly even expecting a reply, “Did I hear some Tchaikovsky in your impromptu concert?”

“You continue to amaze me, John,” Sherlock drawls from the living room. “Out of roughly an hour and a half of music you only picked up on _Tchaikovsky_?”

“What’s wrong with -” John starts, only to fully realize what Sherlock had just said. “Hey, wait a minute. _An hour and a half_?! That can’t have been good for your ribs!”

Sherlock just waves his hand dismissively. “Inconsequential. It’s just transport.”

John sighs. What Sherlock wants, Sherlock does, regardless of the consequences to his health. “Well, technically playing the violin is transport, too.”

“Music is an expression of my mind, just like my explaining my reasoning to you lot is. An extension of thought, if you will. So no, it’s not transport,” Sherlock replies, voice surprisingly quiet and intent.

“Oh, so just the things that keep you healthy are?” John snaps, unable to keep his worry for Sherlock in general from affecting his temper.

Sherlock, naturally, is far from offended. He just arches an eyebrow, in a familiar gesture of easy condescension.  “Don’t be petty, John.”

He knows better than to argue the point. Some battles one simply cannot win – and where Sherlock Holmes is concerned ‘some’ is more accurately described as ‘most’.

“To return to our actual point of conversation, there’s nothing wrong with Tchaikovsky, precisely, though his compositions do tend to lack a certain difficulty for any accomplished violinist. He is, however, the romantic among the romantics, which sadly makes him rather more well-known in today’s society than most composers.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

Sherlock sighs dramatically. “Oh, just that you’re - as usual - mirroring the decay of society’s priorities and taste into pointless, cloying emotionality, rather than actual talent.”

John supposes that it’s still better to be lumped in with humanity in general, and thus only insulted in a round-about way, than to be singled out. At any rate, even he has to admit that in this instance, Sherlock actually has a valid point – the debate would just be about the question whether this trend in people’s thinking is actually a bad thing, or not. He decides not to worry about it too much.

“So what else were you playing?” he asks instead, partly out of honest curiosity (the music had been beautiful, after all), and partly to avoid another lecture on all the disappointing aspects of society nowadays.

“Some of Sarasate’s Zigeunerweisen, Vivaldi’s Violin Concerto in A Minor, Händel’s Passacaglia, and Mendelssohn’s Opus 64 in E Minor,” Sherlock replies immediately.

Catching sight of John’s mostly blank look, he huffs in disgust. “You can tell me all the songs of that ridiculous band you like, the Beavers or whatever they’re called, but you don’t know some of the most famous violin pieces ever composed?”

“It’s the _Beatles_ , Sherlock,” John says exasperated. “I still can’t believe you deleted the Beatles.”

Sherlock just shrugs. “See previous statement. Besides, do you really want to have the solar system argument all over again?”

A smile steals its way onto John’s face, unbidden. He doesn’t know why he finds righteously indignant Sherlock so endearing (though, in light of recent events he might be inching towards the answer), but it does make him see that, regardless of the attraction he realized the day before, and the subsequent realization of deeper feelings, those feelings _had_ been there before – he just hadn’t been consciously aware of them. Somehow, that makes him feel a lot better.

And if he goes and looks up the pieces Sherlock had listed later that day, he doesn’t mention it, though Sherlock’s pleased smile implies that he’s aware of it anyway.

*

 One can’t precisely say that things go back to normal in the following days. For one thing things are never actually normal in 221B. For another they simply don’t, at least not for John. Oh, there’s still the illusion of routine, but in his mind he’s just stuck in limbo, waiting for the proverbial penny to drop. The calm before the storm, the deep breath before the plunge. It’s a familiar feeling, reminding him of the long days and nights in Afghanistan, spent mindlessly, powerlessly waiting for the battle to happen. At least he isn’t liable to get killed with this one.

Because Sherlock _will_ inevitably find out – that’s just what he does.

On some level John is aware that his behaviour in waiting for it is the epitome of a self-fulfilling prophecy, but it doesn’t make a difference. He is who he is, and he’s never been someone who’s able to completely ignore a hairy situation.

He isn’t surprised in the least when it all goes pear-shaped three long weeks later.

They had been chasing another criminal through what had felt like half of London. By the time they had managed to corner him on a small overpass, he’d been so tired that he had barely had the energy to complain about the fact that they never just, you know, _surrendered_ , but maybe that wasn’t so bad since Sherlock had looked aghast at the notion. It had also meant, however, that he’d been so tired that the ensuing scuffle dragged on far longer than it should have and had only ended when Sherlock had grasped the chance to hit the desperate criminal from behind while the thug was concentrating on kicking John’s leg.

Which is how he’d come to be in his current situation – caught by Sherlock Holmes before hitting the ground because a low level thug had kicked him in the thigh. Woe upon woes.

Adrenaline is still pumping through his body, making him hyper-aware of all the blazing points of Sherlock’s touch on his body to keep him from falling. They’re both panting hard, the thrill of the chase still alive in their blood. He looks up at the pale, angular face, the eyes with their wildly blown pupils, reflecting the dim light of the street lamp above, and he _wants_.

As it happens, there’s only one of them who likes to overanalyse things, and it isn’t him (he’s more the ‘do it and panic later’ kind of bloke, really), so, before common sense can stop him, he leans forward and presses his lips to Sherlock’s.

For a blissful moment those softly curved lips respond, deepening the kiss. A heartbeat later there’s only cold air meeting his tingling lips, as Sherlock staggers back, his eyes wide and shocked in the semi-darkness.

John longs to say something, to offer some reassurance, maybe even make a joke to lighten the atmosphere (to offer an escape from this impossible situation he’s put them both in), but the words get lost somewhere between his mind and his mouth.

He can only watch silently, a cry stuck in his throat that will never come into existence, as Sherlock’s face closes off with a shuddering finality.

He imagines his heart to be splintering, when Sherlock breathes something that might have been ‘I’m sorry’ and turns away, disappearing into the blackness of a side-alley, leaving John alone, all alone, standing in the middle of a street somewhere in London, lost and bewildered.

*

After three days of no more than a minute spent in each other’s presence, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Sherlock is avoiding him. Infuriatingly (though also unsurprisingly) he’s also very good at it.

It takes another two days until John finally manages to corner him sufficiently to talk to him.

“This can’t go on like this, Sherlock,” he says steadily, ignoring the fact that he’s currently bracketing Sherlock against the wall in order to keep him from bolting (of course Sherlock could still escape if he so chose, but he would have to hurt John in order to do so, which John hopes isn’t on his agenda).

“And why can’t it?” Sherlock demands, looking for all the world like a deer caught in the. John has never seen him this… skittish before. “It’s been working perfectly fine till now.”

 “No, it hasn’t! During the last five days you haven’t spoken a word to me and I might as well be living in this flat alone, since you’re never here anymore. We were – _are_ – friends and right now you can’t even bear to look at me, so don’t tell me that everything’s fine!”

He’s breathing heavily at the end and Sherlock’s looking at him with a mixture of wonder, confusion, and fear on his face before his usual emotionless mask slips back into place.

“What is your proposition then?” he asks calmly, and John allows himself to relax marginally.

“Just to forget about this whole thing and go back to normal. There was a kiss initiated by adrenaline and the thrill of the chase and it doesn’t have to be any more than that. And you can stop looking like I’m going to spontaneously jump you whenever I’m close to you, ‘cause I won’t, okay?” he answers, resolutely ignoring the part of him wanting more, _wanting closeness_. Almost as an afterthought he lets his arms drop to his sides, stepping back.

Sherlock’s blue-grey eyes pierce through him. “But you want it to be more, don’t you, John? The signs are all there.”

“And you kissed me back,” John counters, his voice tight.

Sherlock hesitates for split second, then coolly states, “A momentary lapse in judgement.”

He sighs, uncomfortable now. “Look, Sherlock, I –“

“No, John, it’s alright,” Sherlock interrupts him quietly, all coldness gone from his voice, shocking him into silence. For once there is turmoil in his eyes, and something that looks surprisingly like pain. “I just can’t, do you understand?”

John doesn’t, but when he says so, Sherlock just smiles tightly and refuses to elaborate. It is, unfortunately, safe to say that the conversation leaves John more confused than ever.

*

Thursday evening pub nights with Greg usually tend to either be comfortable conversations about inconsequential things like football or long rants in order to air their frustration with Sherlock somewhere. For some reason they also tend to go rather well and leave John relaxed in a way that only the company of a good friend and the occasional bout of normalcy can.

Somehow, he doubts today is going to end like that.

He’s on his second beer before he manages to even graze the topic he really wants to talk about (because Lestrade knows Sherlock in a way not many people do, except maybe for Mycroft), and by the time he looks up with the intention of actually broaching the topic, the other is looking at him in a more than vaguely concerned way.

“You know that Sherlock isn’t a sociopath, right?” John finally says, fixing Lestrade with a grave look over the rim of his glass.

If the Detective Inspector is surprised by his sudden question he doesn’t show it.

“Of course,” he answers easily. John keeps regarding him steadily as he takes a sip of his drink. “Then again, I met him at a time when he was… vulnerable.” Correctly interpreting the look of incredulity on John’s face, he continues, a hint of a smile on his face, “Yes, I know it sounds far-fetched, but he was a different man back then. When I met him, well, no one could’ve claimed him to be a sociopath.” His mouth twists wryly. “Obviously Donovan and Anderson weren’t on the force then.”

“What happened?” John asks, curiosity momentarily side-tracking him from his original issue.

Lestrade sighs wearily. “He made me promise never to tell anyone, and it’s not my place to do so anyway. You should talk to Sherlock himself if you want answers.”

A choked laugh escapes John. “Did you just say answers and Sherlock in the same sentence?”

An edge of hysteria is creeping into his tone when he finally brings himself to say, “To think that I appear to be desperately in love with the mad bastard. God, I’m bloody screwed.”

There is a moment of silence. John is studiously avoiding looking at Lestrade by fixing his gaze on the wholly unremarkable table.

“Knew you’d get there eventually.”

John’s head snaps up. “What?!”

“John,” Lestrade sighs, looking torn between sympathy and amusement, “there’s a reason why people keep assuming you’re in a relationship. _Everyone_ was seeing it. Except for you, of course. And possibly Sherlock, though I’m still not sure where he’s standing in all of this.”

“Well, he certainly doesn’t want a relationship,” John mumbles bitterly. “That much I know now.”

Lestrade mutters something under his breath that sounds vaguely like ‘the fucker’. “What happened?”

“Basically we kissed, he ran away and proceeded to avoid me for the next five days, and when I cornered him today he said it was a ‘lapse in judgement’ and that he didn’t want a relationship.

“Are you sure he said that he didn’t _want_ it, not that he wouldn’t or couldn’t?” Lestrade asks urgently, leaning forward a little.

Brought up short by the strange question, John thinks back to their conversation, trying to remember Sherlock’s exact wording. “No,” he says slowly, “he said he couldn’t, not that he didn’t want to. But what does it matter?”

Relaxing back into his chair again, a thoughtful look crosses the DI’s face. “Thought so.”

He hesitates for a moment. “I know what I said earlier, but in this situation, it seems you should know. When I first met Sherlock – that’s more than six years ago now – he was high as a kite, but no less brilliant than he is now. Even after all these years I’m not quite sure what compelled me to offer him a roof to sleep under if he ever needed it. Frankly, I didn’t think he’d take me up on the offer, so imagine my surprise when he turned up on my doorstep a few days letter, even more of a wreck than he’d been during our first meeting, though not that it stopped him from deducing practically my whole life story in a few minutes.”

The reminiscing half-smile on his face can only be described as fond.

“Anyway, he said he wanted to work, or rather he demanded to be let on crime scenes to ‘do your jobs since you’re too much of a bunch of imbeciles to manage’. Obviously I refused to let him go anywhere near a crime scene while on drugs. We ended up striking a deal that if he got sober, I would let him help the Met. The process wasn’t… well, it wasn’t nice, but he adamantly refused to go to a hospital, so I did my best trying to help him through it – occupied his mind with cold cases and so on. Over the course of those weeks I gathered some information about his background, anything he would let slip, or maybe he deliberately let me figure it out, I don’t know, but at the end I had enough to piece most of it together. Apparently he’d been in a relationship with someone – he never told me the name – for quite some time. He reacted badly when he was dumped, though I never figured out why or how. Maybe it was just him being, you know, Sherlock. With nothing to occupy that brilliant brain of his he turned to drugs.”

A long silence follows, as John tries to wrap his head around everything he’s just heard. Somehow, it doesn’t sound right. Sherlock in a romantic relationship?

“That reaction seems a little extreme, even for Sherlock,” he notes quietly. “There has to be more to it than that.”

Lestrade just shrugs. “Probably, yes. But I sure as hell don’t know what, and Sherlock hasn’t exactly been forthcoming on the subject.” He takes another long drink. “It’s a pity really. You’re good for him.”

John wonders if that’s tacit approval in case they’ll still get their act together, or if he’s just imagining it.

After that their conversation turns to lighter topics, but John fails to concentrate completely on their conversation. Too many thoughts, possibilities, imagined scenarios are besieging his mind.

Lestrade, thankfully, is a good enough friend to neither comment on it, nor be insulted by his lack of engagement.

*

He can’t say he’s really surprised when a black car pulls up to the curb next to him on his way back from the clinic the following day.

It is, however, mildly surprising to find himself sitting next to Mycroft Holmes, instead of his secretary (whatever her name is this month).

“A car provides by far the most optimal chance of not being overheard,” Myrcoft says smoothly.

John grits his teeth. It’s bad enough when Sherlock does his whole mind-reading thing on him, he really doesn’t need Mycroft baiting him as well.

“What’s this about then?”

Mycroft gives him a look which makes it only too clear that he knows that John is quite aware of the reason for this newest kidnapping, only adding to the air of suppressed (condescending) amusement John feels he always adopts around him.

“Sherlock always was a strange boy. Even at a young age he was different, or, more importantly, he saw the world in a different way than most people. It didn’t particularly endear him to any of his age mates. In consequence he was mostly left to his own devices during his school years, an outcast, if you will.” Mycroft shrugs, a small, rippling motion. “Humanity has always tended towards dislike and enmity in face of the unexpected, especially if the unexpected comes with a superior intellect. This state of affairs remained largely the same while he was in university. He did, however, meet the person to later become so much of a problem there – Victor Trevor. He was intelligent, a very talented musician, and had more than a passing interest in chemistry. He was also the first person my brother ever connected to outside the family and friends of the family at that point. It seemed a foregone conclusion that their relationship would ascend to the next level eventually. Unfortunately my brother had, due to his limited human contact, not made a vital observation about himself – instead of going into it with awareness of a problem, he came to realize his asexuality in the course of their deepening intimacy. He-“

“What?!” John splutters violently, eyeballing the man next to him for any signs of mirth.

“My brother isn’t interested in sex,” Mycroft clarifies rather pointedly, around a sigh.

“I know what… oh, never mind.”

“As I was saying, it took Sherlock some time and some experimentation with Trevor to fully accept his condition. For a while their association continued, however it was only a matter of time until some… missteps occurred. Males especially aren’t very good at suppressing their sex drive, generally speaking. My brother’s reaction was less than favourable, as I believe you’ve been told, and constituted much to his current outlook on emotions and sentiments.”

Frowning, John asks the one question that has been buzzing in his head ever since Mycroft had started talking. “And why’re you telling _me_ this now?”

“Well, you see, my brother has been in love with you for months now. He might be asexual, but he is not technically aromantic, even if he does his utmost to make it seem that way. However, while his moping has been most tedious, now that you’ve realised your feelings for him, the situation has changed and my brother would never tell you this.”

John is sure he must have misheard Mycroft – he’s also in the dire need of collecting his jaw from where it hit the floor. Mycroft couldn’t _possibly_ have said that Sherlock was in _love_ with _him_. That’s utterly preposterous.

“I assure you, it is the truth, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft informs him calmly, once more appearing to precisely know where his thoughts have led him. “He even admitted it himself – though, granted, it was as painful a procedure as pulling one’s own teeth.”

Before John can even remotely get his bearings back together (his mind, unsurprisingly is still stuck on Sherlock, love, _me_ ), the elder Holmes continues, “It’s a pity really, that Sherlock is so stubborn. You would be good for him.”

If he had been more lucid, John would have noticed the development of a trend here.

“If, on the other hand,” Mycroft’s tone is more frigid than ice, “he were to give in to you and a repeat of the past happened, know that he might not recover from it – and my displeasure would be…palpable.”

“Is that a threat?”

The smile Mycroft flashes him is everything but reassuring. “Oh, I hardly think that you require one, Doctor Watson. Have a good day.”

*

Baker Street is unnaturally silent when he returns. Hesitating on the final step, John finally has to admit to himself how completely out of his depth he is in the current situation, which somehow seems to have evolved far out of his control. Suddenly he feels so much wearier than he has any right being at his age. He should be happy to finally be in possession of the information which he’s been seeking – consciously and unconsciously – ever since he’d first met Sherlock. He should be strategizing on how to get around this newest obstacle. Instead he simply and exhaustingly feels guilty about having learned of it in such a manner (he well knows the advantages and comfort of privacy, especially since his had been torn from him too often to count now). Instead he has absolutely no idea what to do now. He doesn’t know how to deal with Sherlock without changing everything, without displaying far too many emotions the other probably would rather not see. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss.

Sherlock takes one look at his face from where he’s stretched on the sofa and his face shutters.

“Mycroft!” he snarls and his voice is so full of venom that John instinctively minutely recoils.

If he weren’t so used to being read, it would be quite off-putting how much Sherlock can deduce from just his expression.

The silence stretches to unbearable levels. He’s never seen Sherlock’s composure quite so… maybe not shattered, but definitely cracking.

When he can’t stand the oppressive lack of sound anymore, John hesitantly asks, “Sherlock, is it-“

“True?” Sherlock interrupts him, his voice sharp, but his eyes are averted, as if he doesn’t want to see his reaction. “I imagine so. Mycroft hardly lies, especially when he believes telling the truth would somehow _benefit_ me.”

He still isn’t looking at John, which worries him more than he cares to admit – Sherlock _always_ wants to see in order to catalogue and study reactions. For him to willingly pass up on valuable data – it doesn’t bear thinking about.

Feeling helpless, he knows that he should offer some comfort right now, that _this_ moment might very well define both their futures, but his mind is blank. No words will come, not even the honest ones he wants to free so badly.

“What else do you want me to say?”  Sherlock snaps, apparently taking his silence for some form of condemnation which it _isn’t_. “That I am even more of a freak than people already think? That I -”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John interjects, horrified, trying to stop this avalanche of self-doubt, but Sherlock bowls right through his objection, “- can’t even sustain a relationship even if I want to? That all people ever do is leave me? That-”

 “Sherlock,” John loudly interrupts again, “I told you _it’s all fine_. I don’t think any less of you because of your sexual orientation. And I’m _not_ going to leave you.”

But Sherlock, in typical Sherlock fashion (even now) steamrolls right over his assurances. “I will help you move out of course – I understand how horribly awkward it is to live with a failed love interest.”

“Sherlock!” John bellows, his heart aching for the beautiful, messed up genius in front of him, whose intellect usually does too good a job masking lacks in other areas.

Brilliant grey eyes meet his involuntarily, silenced by shock.

He takes a deep breath, struggling to keep his emotions at least somewhat controlled. “Sherlock, I’m serious. It’s fine, I’m not moving out. _It’s fine_. Get that into that big head of yours.”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock replies, after a long moment of scrutinizing him, “that you actually believe what you’re saying right now.” His lips twist wryly, in a way that sparks a deep-seated, irrational anger at the world in general in John. “They all do, at the beginning.”

Obviously this is getting them nowhere. Time to change tracks.

“Love is a two-way street, you know. I could no more leave here, leave _you_ , than I could hack of my own hand. Theoretically possible, but highly inadvisable and very painful.”

“Is that what Mycroft told you? That I’m in love with you?” Sherlock demands cuttingly, but this time John can see the vulnerability lurking behind his sneer.

“Even though you’re trying very hard not to be, yes.”

For a moment their gazes, flashing grey and concerned blue, meet in a silent battle of wills. For once it’s Sherlock who looks away first.

“Whatever you may think, John, it doesn’t change anything.” His voice is a curious mix of bitter and resigned. “You’re still a man with sexual urges – fancying yourself in love with me doesn’t change that. A relationship like that might work for a few weeks, months even, but it can never last.”

“What makes you think that?” John asks hoarsely. In this moment he wants nothing more than to forget those harsh words and simply _make_ Sherlock see love through his eyes.

“Please, John,” Sherlock snorts indelicately. “We both know that sex is the basis of a romantic relationship.”

“But it doesn’t have to be,” he counters quietly. “If two people truly love each other, it _can_ be enough.”

“Tell me, John, where did you pick up your hopelessly romantic notions? From your parents, who split up after only five years of marriage? From your sister, whose longest relationship ended because of her drinking habit? From Sarah, who left you because she couldn’t stand the danger that accompanies any and all association with you?”

John knows enough about psychology – or more importantly, about Sherlock – to recognize this attack as what it is; a reflexive lashing out at the person, the _idea_ , that is causing him so much pain. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like a knife twisting in his chest to hear painful facts hurled at him with such careless cruelty.

And Sherlock isn’t done yet, maybe sensing John’s weariness of the topic, aiming to settle this in his way once and for all. “Regardless of any ill-conceived romantic notions, accumulated data suggests the probability of success of a relationship between someone asexual and someone with a healthy sex drive to be below five per cent.”

“So you would throw away your chance at happiness out of fear of failure?” John questions disbelievingly, his voice rising. “You wouldn’t even try to make it work? You would damn us to living side by side in agony?”

“Better than letting our friendship fall apart completely when the inevitable happens!” Sherlock snaps back. “No rational man could endorse such odds!”

“Love isn’t about rationality, Sherlock, it’s about your heart, your feelings, your _belief_! If you could for once suspend your mind and do what is right, then we wouldn’t need to have this conversation!”

He turns and marches upstairs without waiting for a reply, taking a grim comfort in, for once, being the one to be walking away, his thoughts heavy with everything he didn’t say.

He didn’t say _I never took you for a coward before this_. He didn’t say _Don’t be afraid, I will catch you whenever you fall, I will take care of_ you. He didn’t say _Don’t let one bad experience in your past do this to you – to us_. He didn’t say _Please don’t do this, please don’t shut me out_. He didn’t say _I love you_.

*

To: [sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk)  
From: [glestrade@scotlandyard.co.uk](mailto:glestrade@scotlandyard.co.uk)  
Subject: You’re an idiot

Just a friendly bit of advice: Stop messing around and just go out with the poor man! You’ve been wallowing in misery for months and now that you know it’s reciprocated you decide that it’s a bad idea? Not exactly logical that, now is it?

~Lestrade

PS: And will you please explain why the uncle is supposed to be the murderer?

***

To: [glestrade@scotlandyard.co.uk](mailto:glestrade@scotlandyard.co.uk)  
From: [sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk)  
Subject: Wrong, I’m a certified genius

Keep your nose out of my business, Lestrade; I know what I’m doing!

SH

PS: Didn’t you notice the bloodstains on his knees? Seriously, how your team continues to manage to miss the most obvious hints is the only unsolvable mystery here.

*

To: [sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk)  
From: [glestrade@scotlandyard.co.uk](mailto:glestrade@scotlandyard.co.uk)  
Subject: Doesn’t matter, you’re still an idiot

Have it your way, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

~ Lestrade

PS: And shut up about my team, or I won’t let you on the next crime scene – I mean it.

***

The next morning a steaming cup of tea, prepared exactly the way he likes it, waits for him downstairs. It’s as close to an apology as Sherlock is ever likely to get.

Things are extremely uncomfortable for a few days, but at some point, whether out of sheer self-preservation or by virtue of skilfully ignoring their issues, they mostly return to what passes as normal in 221B.

But John doesn’t forget, and judging by the way he continues to ceaselessly watch John, neither does Sherlock.

It takes an intervention from an entirely unexpected source to break their stalemate.

It starts with a letter. Even on first glance it doesn’t give the appearance of an ordinary missive, garishly pink as it is. Yet more curiously it’s addressed to Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. Standing on the lowest of seventeen steps John stares at it for a while – he can’t recall there _ever_ having been a letter addressed to them both.

When he re-enters their rooms, Sherlock calls from the sofa, where he’s been making camp for four days now after their latest case (John is already mentally preparing for the ensuing explosion when he can’t take the boredom anymore and making plans to buy new wallpaper); “Anything interesting? You were gone two minutes longer than it usually takes you to get the post.”

 “You’ve measured how long it takes me to bring up the post?” John asks, staring, and then blames it on the recent tiring days when he only receives a typical ‘ _what did you think_ ’ eyebrow in return. “Anyway, yeah, it looks to be.”

“Is it a letter bomb?”

“Er…no. And I don’t even want to know why you’d _want_ to receive one.”

“But you said it was interesting!” Sherlock complains, pouting (it’s quite remarkable how every passing day without a case makes him resemble an overgrown child more).

“It’s addressed to both of us.”

Sherlock switches tracks from bored sprawl to intense stare in a millisecond. “Is it pink?”

“How did you -”

The consulting detective slumps back into the cushions, though his eyes remain alert, and says, as if it explained everything, “It’s from a charming and utterly devious woman named Irene Adler.”

“Who’s that?” John asks blankly.

Sherlock’s sigh is just a tad dramatic. “I keep underestimating your common knowledge when it’s not centred on useless celebrities or, heaven forbid, the _royalty_.”

 John had made him watch the royal wedding a few weeks prior, claiming that even Sherlock needed to see it simply by virtue of being English, and he hadn’t yet been forgiven.

“Your point being?” he asks reasonably.

“Irene Adler is one of the world’s most famous opera singers. A particularly pure contralto, if I do say so myself,” Sherlock informs him, his expression still slightly sour at John’s lack of knowledge. “She’s on tour in London right now.”

And is that respect, and even fondness in his tone? Wonders never cease.

“Why would she send _us_ a letter?”

“Oh, it’s probably an invitation to dinner,” Sherlock answers, off-hand and John might have thought that he lost all interest in the conversation if said conversation wasn’t still going and his gaze still so alert.

He sighs. Sometimes he swears Sherlock just lives to wind him up. “And _why_ exactly would she invite us to dinner?”

“Presumably because we’re more than passingly acquainted,” he replies smugly, his lips twitching at John’s open mouthed shock.

“ _You_ have an _acquaintance_?!”

Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to sigh emphatically. “Believe me, I had no choice in the matter whatsoever.”

*

The restaurant Irene Adler has invited them to is possibly the most posh place John has ever set foot in. Naturally he feels completely out of place, even in his best (and only) brown suit jacket. Sherlock, the git, seems right at home, exuding an air of assurance and grace in his every move, only helped along by his perfectly tailored suit.

A waiter leads them to a comparatively small table far in the back. A woman, presumably Adler, is already seated, her back to the window. John can’t help but stare. Of course Sherlock would neglect to mention that Irene Adler is very nearly the embodiment of female perfection, with her glossy dark hair, flawless skin and deep red lips. He might be stupidly and unfortunately in love with the man next to him, but that doesn’t mean he loses all appreciation for female beauty.

Her blue-eyed gaze meets his, shockingly intelligent and a slight smile curls the corners of her mouth. He nearly groans out loud. _Of course_ any acquaintance of Sherlock’s would be scarily smart to boot.

“You were early,” Sherlock drawls, gliding into his seat.

She raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “And you’re late. Still trying to prove a point, Sherlock?”

To John’s astonishment Sherlock’s face twitches in a near smile in return. “Always, Irene.”

Suddenly displaying flawless manners, Sherlock gestures for him to sit down as well. “Irene, this is Doctor John Watson.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Adler,” he manages to say around his confusion.

Her full smile is sharp, and unsettlingly reminds him of a dangerous cat. “The pleasure is all mine, Doctor Watson.”

“So, when did you meet Sherlock?” he queries, trying to hide his discomfort at sitting at a table with two possibly very dangerous people – not that he fancies himself physically endangered, just mentally.

“Oh, I’ve known him since he was five years old,” Adler replies offhandedly.

He’s aware that he’s openly staring at her now. Apparently he has to raise his esteem of her – having survived knowing Sherlock Holmes for more than two decades seems no mean feat. “You can’t be older than Sherlock!”

“Not that much older,” Sherlock scowls from his right, much to Adler’s obvious amusement.

“Still not over that, Sherlock dear?” Turning to John she explains, “I was his mother’s last ditch attempt at finding this lunatic a friend. He’d managed to scare off everyone else living in a ten mile radius.”

“That’s because all of her other attempts were severely mentally challenged and astoundingly boring. Irene was at least somewhat engaging,” Sherlock points out, still looking grumpy.

“You flatter me,” she comments dryly.

Sherlock just snorts, entirely undaunted. “You were only interested in testing your people reading skills on a child sociopath anyway.”

“Is that what you label yourself now?”

There’s something sharp in her voice, some new undercurrent.

“It’s practical enough,” Sherlock shrugs, his piercing gaze searching her face. “She had me tested, you know. Freshman year.”

Adler utters something that’s startlingly derogatory coming from such a beautiful woman. “I _told_ her not to. Blasted woman never listened to me.”

“Did you now?” Sherlock murmurs, tone somewhere in between interested and amused. “I suppose I should be grateful.”

She rolls her eyes, clearly long used to Sherlock’s ways. “Don’t break yourself, darling.”

John watches and listens, not at all bothered by the fact that they essentially seem to have forgotten that he exists, but rather fascinated by the subtle nuances in their interaction. Over the course of the meal, his esteem of her continues to rise, in fact, he might even begin to like her.

Taking a sip of his wine, he uses a temporary lull in the conversation to ask, “Miss Adler, I’m sure there must be some embarrassing childhood stories you could share with me. After all, I’m always in need of some leverage, seeing as I have an unusually pronounced disadvantage against my flatmate.”

Her blooming smile is the very picture of approving. “What a fantastic idea!”

Off to the side, Sherlock groans, narrowly missing his plate when he bangs his head on the table. “Irene, you wouldn’t dare!”

“Or what?” she just asks smugly. “I’m not afraid of you, Sherlock.”

His flatmate mumbles something into the table cloth that sounds suspiciously like, “No respect for genius consulting detectives any more these days.”

Ignoring him completely, Adler turns back to John. “There was this one time – this one is my favourite – when he managed to screw up one of his many chemistry experiments and dyed his hair a nice fiery red. He refused to come out of his room for a whole day, trying to hide it, but Mycroft dragged him out. It was the most hilarious sight.”

“Bloody git,” sounds from his right.

John snickers. “I would love to see a picture of that.”

She sends him a thoughtful look. “Oh, yes. He was adorably flustered. Vain as a peacock even then.”

“I’m not vain,” Sherlock mutters, but his resigned tone already indicates that he’s aware of the futility of his protest. Seeing as he’s the one using designer shampoo and wearing formfitting suits as his usual clothes, John is disinclined to believe him anyway.

It is, if John’s honest with himself, even more than fascinating to see Sherlock so relaxed in the company of someone else, bickering on an intellectual level that John can’t hope to achieve. He also gets the impression that quite a lot passes unspoken between them – what seems like a lifetime ago John would have minded to be left so completely out of the loop, but living with Sherlock does wonders to one’s humility, and he knows this evening is really not about him.

When all the excellent food has finally disappeared from their plates (even Sherlock had finished his portion, much to John’s surprise), and Adler starts making preparations to leave, Sherlock abruptly says, “You’re making a hobby out of changing husbands in record time lately, how deviant of you.”

“You know me, Sherlock. I was never one for social conventions,” she returns lightly, standing up. “Now you need to excuse me, gentlemen, I do have a concert to prepare for.”

She brushes past him, giving them both a smile in farewell.

In the silence that follows, Sherlock sighs. “She does so love a dramatic exit.”

John nearly has to bite his tongue to resist making a comment about pots and kettles. Judging by the glare Sherlock sends him he knows what he’s thinking anyway.

It takes them another five minutes to discover that she’s graciously left them to pay the bill, though Sherlock looks more amused than upset at the revelation.

He only finds the note tucked into his suit pocket when they’re already back at Baker Street. It reads, in an elegant feminine hand:

_Meet me tomorrow at seven pm in front of the Grand Hotel. Bring your gun_.

*

If anyone had asked John why exactly he even considered going to a likely highly dangerous meeting with someone he doesn't really know, he couldn’t have given them a straight answer, as he’s rather unsure of the whys and wherefores himself. Somehow, he hasn’t really entertained the notion of _not_ going, however.

When he passes through the living room on his way downstairs, his gun tucked in the back of his jacket, Sherlock sends him a narrow-eyed suspicious stare.

“Where are you going?”

“A meeting with Miss Adler,” he answers shortly.

For a moment Sherlock simply stares at him, a flare of hurt in his eyes that makes John wince. Then his mask slips back in place and a dark eyebrow rises. “With your _gun_?”

“Don’t worry, Sherlock, I’m not going to shoot her unless she definitely deserves it,” John grins, though perfectly aware that it doesn’t answer the question, and makes a beeline for the door.

Adler isn’t hard to find, even in such a busy place as the front entrance of the Grand Hotel. After all not many women are self-assured enough to wear a low-cut, extremely eye-catching, scarlet dress on a normal day out.

This time he doesn’t bother with niceties, still thrown by her unorthodox way of summoning him (and the casual arrogance it bespoke, expecting him to jump at her command) and unnerved by his own compliance. Not to mention that he has no idea why she wants to meet him, and his still faintly guilty conscience at having made Sherlock think, however inadvertently, that he’s on a date with her (however gratifying it is to see that Sherlock can be jealous, it's still disturbing).

“Why did you call me here? I have no desire to hurt Sherlock in any way.”

She regards him calmly, not at all fazed by his hostile tone. “And yet here you are.” Contemplating the busy expression of life in front of them, she says thoughtfully, “Isn’t it ironic how some people still question Shakespeare’s role in modern life?”

What? John only tries to figure out where she’s coming from for a moment, before giving up. Living with Sherlock had at least taught him when to admit defeat.

“Love makes fools of us all, Doctor Watson,” Adler states quietly, watching him with keen, but hooded eyes. “Shakespeare knew that better than anyone, judging by his works.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Quite the literary scholar, aren’t you?”

There’s something in her face, some expression that niggles at him. Realizations dawns along with a sudden kinship.

“You are in love with him, too.”

Her laugh is just a little too bitter. “Aren’t we all? Either you love Sherlock Holmes, or you hate him. I would’ve advised you not to do the former, but of course it’s too late for that now.”

She begins walking down the street, gesturing for him to follow.

“Where’re we going?” he asks, still feeling a little rebellious, but following her anyway.

“Not far.”

He resists the urge to sigh. And here he had thought Sherlock was the only one afflicted by this particular ailment of being entirely non-informative.

“You two couldn’t take your eyes off each other during dinner, you know,” she states casually. “It would’ve been adorable if Sherlock wasn’t so hell-bent on not letting himself be happy.”

The declaration catches him off guard, still racking his brain trying to figure out if he’d really been staring that openly as he is. He supposed he should feel faintly insulted to be called _adorable_ of all things, but then again, it applies to Sherlock even less than to him, so he figures it’s all right.

“Is that why you’re trying to set us up now? So that he can be happy?” he asks, curious despite himself.

She looks at him then, long and hard, then says, as if it explains it (and maybe it does), “I’ve known him for a long time.”

A hint of a smile breaks out on her face. “Or maybe I’m just allergic to stupidity.”

“That’s what _he_ says. Hasn’t stopped him from being a very idiotic genius yet,” he points out.

Her smile widens into a true one. “Touché.”

Having turned from the busy main roads, they are now walking down a shadowed, quiet alley. Feeling an uneasy prickling at the back of his neck, John says abruptly, “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“Hmm?” she murmurs, looking distracted. “Oh, that’s because there’s no specific destination. You brought your gun.”

It’s not a question, so he doesn’t bother responding. Instead he asks, “Will I need it?”

“Possibly. I hope that doesn’t -”

She stops in the middle of the sentence, eyes casting about. Later John won’t be able to say whether it was sheer luck that made him look at the window across the street or his instinct – regardless the reason, he spots the sniper before the shot rings out.

Body on autopilot he throws himself at Adler, taking her down to the ground with him. The bullet passes harmlessly through the air above them.

Scrambling to his feet, John keeps his body between the shooter and Adler, his blood thrumming with adrenaline, as he drags her behind the relative safety of a few rubbish bins. Momentarily out of view, he casts about for a more permanent hiding place, ignoring the woman breathing heavily next to him, his gun a comforting weight in his hand (he doesn’t even remember reaching for it - long years of serving in the army will do that to a person).

A back doorway on the other side of the alleyway they’re currently crouching in catches his eye. Nudging her, he motions with his head, and Adler nods once in understanding.

“On three,” he instructs, hoping with all his might that the door is either unlocked or as flimsy as it looked. She looks remarkably calm, catching his eye firmly as she readies herself to run.

They sprint across the three meters of unprotected space together, the air rushing past them not loud enough to drown out the shrill whirr of a bullet missing him by centimetres only. Before he can even think about that, they crash into the wooden door, falling through the entryway as it gives beneath their combined weight.

Catching himself on his feet, John slams the now slightly unhinged door back in place before sinking to the ground, panting.

“Is it safe?” Adler gasps from across the dingy hallway they’re now occupying.

“For a while,” he responds, in between trying to calm his racing heart. “No sniper can shoot us in here, so they would have to break in first.”

He hefts his gun. “That will put us on more even ground.”

“It’s only one,” she informs him, some of her assured air returning. Correctly interpreting his dubious look, she adds, “I’m sure. He’s an assassin, hired by my dear ex-husband to kill me.” She sighs. “Men do bear such tiresome grudges.”

“You knew about this?” he demands angrily. God, is there a sign on him somewhere that proclaims ‘Suicidal geniuses over here’? “You _knew_ about this and you still walked into his trap?”

“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” she says reasonably. She flashes him a smile. “I had you with me now, didn’t I?”

“Oh for the love of – that’s _not_ a good reason! You could’ve been killed!”

“Yes, well, and then there’s also the fact that now Sherlock can come charging in and rescue you.”

His mouth opens and closes a few times, but no words come out. Good grief, is he surrounded by mad people? The reasonable answer is yes, he is, but he doesn’t much want to think about what that says about him.

“Right,” he says, keeping his voice deliberately calm, “we should probably call someone.”

Adler waves her phone at him, smirking lightly. “Already did that. Sherlock should be here soon.”

He doesn’t even try to resist the urge to groan and bury his face in his hands. Being rescued by Sherlock really isn’t high on his to-do list, there’s enough gloating going on in 221B as it is. And if that’s her great plan of making Sherlock give in to this whole relationship thing, then he isn’t putting much faith in his chances of ever succeeding in that particular endeavour.

When he finally dares to look up again, Adler is still smirking knowingly at him. He spontaneously decides that some more wallowing in the unfairness that is his life is definitely called for right now.

*

Half an hour later John is reasonably sure that he’s in shock (even though there’s a decided lack of orange blankets – not that he mourns the fact). It hadn’t been the moment when Sherlock burst through the door, his eyes wild, followed by what seemed like half of Scotland Yard, and neither had it been the conversation that followed, mostly consisting of repeated questions about his welfare, no matter how often he assured him that, _yes, he was fine_. It hadn’t even been the near painfully obvious concern and relief present on Sherlock’s face, the stormy emotions he never lets on, the masks slipped for more than a few seconds at a time.

No, it had been the kiss, the ungovernable, heated clash of lips on his own, as his world had tilted from its axis, leaving him dangling in free fall, as exhilarating as it had been dangerous. He can vaguely remember his enthusiastic response, the cat-calls from behind, and the wide smile on Lestrade’s face, that had somehow managed to make him seem at least a decade younger, but after that events are a blur.

Which is how he finds himself planted securely on the couch back at the flat without much recollection of how he’d got there, Sherlock pacing agitatedly in front of him.

“I’m going to kill her! How dare she drag you into danger like that?” he’s muttering, sporadically running his fingers through his already rumpled hair in a rare outward display of agitation.

“I’d rather you don’t,” John says evenly, meeting his gaze squarely. “With this as a result I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

That simple statement is enough to make Sherlock stop in his tracks.

When he doesn’t say anything, John gently prods further, “What made you change your mind? You were set on -”

“- behaving like an idiot?” Sherlock finished dryly. “Though don’t tell Mycroft or Lestrade that I said that if you value your favourite jumper.” He hesitates. “When you were gone and I knew you were in danger…I realized that whether we’re in a relationship or not, my feelings are still the same. I couldn’t bear you leaving me now, either.”

John nods in acknowledgement - it does make a certain kind of sense; he just wishes Sherlock had figured it out sooner.

As if reading his thoughts his flatmate sighs. “You have no idea what you’ve got yourself into here, John.”

He refuses to look away, challenging. “On the contrary, I think that I’ve a better grasp of it than you seem to think.”

“I’m not -” Sherlock looks torn, his hands swishing through the air in even greater agitation. “I’m not _changing_. I don’t think I could change who I am - even for this, even if I wanted to.”

“And I’m not asking you to,” John insists firmly, but gently. “I don’t want anyone but you. And I’ve lived with you for more than a year and a half now, so believe me when I say I know what you can be like. _This_ is just the next step.”

All of Sherlock’s movement halts, his motion suspended as he fixes John with an intense, soul-searching stare.

“It won’t be easy. Are you prepared to bear the consequences if something goes wrong? If one of us makes a mistake too big to be overlooked? If you find that living ascetically when it comes to sex is much harder than you anticipated?”

The quiet words belie the gravity of the moment – this is it, either he’s in or not. It says a lot about the man John is that he doesn’t even have second thoughts.

He just looks into Sherlock’s grey eyes, projecting all his assurance, his belief in them, and says, “I know and I am. You aren’t getting rid of me anymore, Sherlock.”

The blooming smile, dazzling in its rarity and intensity, makes him melt, like snow in the first rays of sunshine after a long and hard winter. It’s also all the assurance and acknowledgement that he needed to know that they’re _actually doing this_.

*

John finds Irene Adler’s parting gift the next day, while rummaging around in his coat pocket for his keys.

Despite his irritation at the fact that people keep reverse-pickpocketing him without him noticing, he can’t help but smile at what he finds himself holding. It’s a slightly faded, but still surprisingly vibrant photo of a young Sherlock. That in itself is already a rarity, since Sherlock has demonstrated a rather large aptitude for avoiding having any and all pictures taken of him, but what makes it even more precious is the small smile on his face – and the blazing red curls.

It seems Adler took his expressed desire to have a picture of that event seriously. Turning it over, he finds the words _You owe me a dinner_ scrawled elegantly in black ink on the back.

His smile widening, he wonders if she’s still in London. He would like to thank her, seeing as she single-handedly resolved a situation he’d all but given up as lost in his favour.

“Don’t bother,” Sherlock says from the couch. “She left London this morning.”

John is torn between all too familiar admiration and annoyance. But Sherlock sounds bored, so he decides to indulge him (maybe Sherlock has a point when he accuses him of being just a big push-over). “How did you know what I was thinking this time?”

Sherlock’s face immediately subtly lights up. It’s absolutely ridiculous how much of a show-off he is, really – genius always needs an audience indeed.

“You found something in your coat pocket, something that surprised you, judging by your posture and smile. The only person close enough to you to slip you something – except for me, of course – in the last day or so is Irene. Your smile says you’re pleased about it, which means you would like to thank her, tediously polite as you unfailingly insist on being,” he rattles off in his typical quick-fire deduction mode, still looking at John appraisingly. “Judging by the way you hold it, the item in question can’t be heavy and is approximately square-shaped. Furthermore you studied it with interest for more than a minute - I would say a photograph is the most likely option.” His face turns slightly sour. “Something infinitely embarrassing, no doubt.”

Smirking, John turns around, showing him the picture. “Oh no, I think it’s absolutely _adorable_.”

Sherlock gives it one glance and groans in horror, muttering something creatively uncomplimentary about Adler under his breath. “Can I burn it?”

“Nope,” John tells him cheerfully. “I’m going to frame it and put it on the mantelpiece.”

Seeing Sherlock’s relieved look, he adds, just a slight hint of glee in his tone, “And don’t even think about touching or harming it there – unless you really want Mycroft and Greg to find out that you yourself admitted to having been an idiot. Also, I’m sure they would _love_ a copy of this each – nice red hair and all.”

Sherlock’s glower could’ve stripped metal. “I was experimenting with 6-hydroxy-5-[(2-methoxy-5-methyl-4-sulfophenyl)azo]-2-naphthalenesulfonic acid,” he sniffed. “How was I to know that food dye can also colour one’s hair when exploding?”

“Why were you experimenting with food dye?” John asks, a little cautiously (with Sherlock one never knows when the answer is going to be something disturbingly horrific).

“I was trying to find out if various forms of poisons reacted with the food dye in any way.”

“And you were doing that at age _thirteen_?”

Sherlock sniffs. “I was _twelve_ , John.”

“Obviously I need more material to study,” John comments, half- joking, half-serious. Sherlock follows his gaze to the mantelpiece.

“You’re not thinking of starting a collection!” he demands, looking far too alarmed for someone who can look down the barrel of a gun without batting an eyelash.

“Why not?” John grins. “It will be a nice thing to have when we’re old and want to remember what it feels like to be young.”

Sherlock gives him one of those ‘don’t be an idiot’- looks. “We’re hardly _young_ , John.”

“I doubt you’ll still be saying that when you’re too old and creaky to get up the stairs anymore.”

His flatmate snorts, in his ‘as if I’m ever going to do something that normal’ way. Admittedly, the odds of Sherlock surviving that long without some enraged criminal offing him somewhere _are_ rather low, but he usually avoids thinking about that.

“At any rate, I’m going to insist on at least one nice picture of the both of us – sentimental reasons,” John says firmly.

Sherlock buries his face in a pillow with another exasperated sigh. “If I’d known you would be this cliché about everything, I would’ve thought twice about wanting to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“Too late now,” John reminds him cheerfully. “Besides _you_ are a walking cliché, so I don’t know why you’re so averse to them.”

The predictable outrage that follows is thankfully muffled by the pillow, before Sherlock raises his head to glare at him. “How am _I_ a cliché?”

“Have you looked at a mirror lately, Sherlock? You look like the epitome of a Byronic hero,” John points out, doing his best not to burst out laughing at Sherlock’s affronted look. “Weren’t you reading Byron’s poems some time ago?”

“…they weren’t clichés back when he wrote them,” Sherlock mutters after a short silence – and is that a hint of embarrassment on his face?

“Maybe it’s your subconscious trying to tell you something,” John suggests, enjoying himself far too much to let the point drop now.

There’s a delightful hint of red on Sherlock’s cheeks (the first ever proof that he’s even _able_ to blush, if John remembers correctly), when he mumbles, “Well, I bought you the tea.”

“Ah, so buying me tea counts as the ultimate romantic gesture now?”

“Do shut up, John.”

John shuts up, but files the information away for possible later use. After all, if he’s actually going to be spending the rest of his life with this impossible man, it can’t hurt to be prepared.

Settling himself down next to the still ruffled genius, wondering how this bizarre relationship is ever going to work, one answer does present itself; one step at a time.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
